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Lethal Intentions

By Jennifer Chastain

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Undercover ATF agent Jack Spencer lived by one hard and fast rule: Don’t get attached. No exceptions.
Jack leaned against the rock outcropping near his beach house and expelled a lungful of air. During his two-year assignment on Hawaii’s Big Island, the temptation to break all the rules and cross every personal boundary he’d set for himself almost broke him. He’d nearly lost his self-control and the internal battle for discipline was hard-won. He never expected the lure of the Islands and the people to test his resolve, specifically one dark-eyed beauty. He’d shut down his emotions immediately, never allowing himself to dream of a life outside of his job.
Sentimentality made a person weak and was a surefire way to lose focus. One wrong step could place those he cared for in danger, resulting in injury. Or worse.
Surveying his own little slice of paradise overlooking the bay, Jack lifted his face to the late morning sun and


smiled. Clear, deep blue water shimmered in the distance, and waves crashed against the rocky shoreline.
A warm ocean breeze blew in from the lagoon and over his exposed skin. The wind dried his skin and left behind a salty residue. With one last deep inhale, he turned and headed back to the house.
Time to wrap up this assignment and get out of here.
He ran his fingers through his shaggy hair, long overdue for a haircut. He’d have to wait a few more weeks until he got back to DC.
After his team arrested the cartel members involved in a weapons smuggling ring, he’d delayed returning to the mainland. Who wouldn’t? But something about this case wasn’t right. All the pieces fit, but… what if he’d overlooked an important piece of evidence? An unease built in his gut, and he swallowed back his anxiety. Two years spent undercover, and they only netted five arrests. Seemed all the late-night surveillance had been futile.
He stretched his arms overhead and stifled a yawn. What he needed was a change of pace. Maybe he’d move to Texas, help his cousin Luke on his ranch. Jack loved the wide-open spaces, the trail rides, an honest day’s work. Best of all? Not having to watch his back at all times.
The wetsuit tightened around his body, a good reminder to get out of the constricting rubber. If not, he’d never get it off. Rinsing off under the outdoor shower, his thoughts settled on his wife. Well, technically, Abi wasn’t his wife, but his cover. Before he’d left the house in the


predawn hours that morning, her deep brown eyes had flashed fire at him, driving him outside. The hurtful words they’d exchanged left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“I told you, Jack, I can’t leave the Big Island.”
“Why not? We could hide out at my cousin’s ranch. I’d help you start over on the mainland.”
Tears clouded her eyes. “I just… can’t.”
He shook his head. No matter how much he pleaded with her, she wouldn’t budge. Abi was fire one day, ice the next. Every time he’d brought up the subject of leaving, she’d shut him down. He’d purchased a peace offering of a dozen cinnamon and sugar Malsadas. He needed to keep the peace until he received his next assignment.
Those sweet balls of dough better do their job, ‘cause he’d really messed up. Too sweet for him, but she loved them.
Jack toweled off under the alcove and pulled on a pair of board shorts and an old T-shirt. Grabbing the pastries from his older model pickup truck, he balanced the box in one hand and his wet suit, flippers, and goggles with the other.
He stored his gear in the large storage container sitting on the front porch and locked it. Before entering the house, he shucked his flip-flops. Didn’t want Abi yelling at him. Again.
With the box held over his head, he swung open the screen door with a flourish. “Honey! I’m home!” Jack


paused, waiting for Abi’s laughter.
Nothing. The only sound was the distant crash of the waves against the shore.
The acrid stench of burnt coffee greeted Jack as he entered the kitchen. Odd. Abi never forgot to turn off the burner. Awareness skittered over his skin, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
“Abi. Where are you?” Jack pulled his service revolver out of the hidden drawer in the cabinet. Gripping the weapon with both hands, he cleared the living room. A flash of movement caught his eye, and he froze in place, gun held at the ready.
Heart pounding, he burst through the bedroom door and pointed the gun at the bed. Abi’s gray-striped tabby, Kanaloa, glared at him from his windowsill perch. “Hey, buddy. Where’s Mama?”
Jack ran a hand down the cat’s soft fur. The rumble of a low purr was the only response. Jack scanned the room once more. A foot stuck out from under the bed. His breath hitched.
He recognized the shell ankle bracelet he’d given Abi last Christmas. All the oxygen was sucked out of the room, and his lungs failed to expand. Oh no. He tucked the gun in his waistband. With shaky hands, he flipped the mattress and bedsprings on the floor. That’s when he saw the bright red puddle of blood pooled around her head.

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